


The Last Time

by Mireille



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-07-01
Updated: 2002-07-01
Packaged: 2018-08-16 10:50:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8099323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mireille/pseuds/Mireille
Summary: "This is the last time I'm doing this," he said.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written a year before OOTP came out, so nothing fits canon. I'm okay with that, honestly.

He couldn't fucking believe he was doing this again.

Once was an aberration, born of boredom and frustration; twice was--well, twice had forced Marcus to do some serious thinking about some things he had been hoping would just go away if he ignored them long enough. Three times, though--three times when he'd found himself with his back against a wall and Oliver Wood's tongue in his mouth, Oliver's hands...fuck, Oliver's hands _everywhere_ , and oh, god, this was going to be over before it even got started if Oliver didn't...oh. Oh, fuck.

Three times was just insanity. Three times, and Oliver might start getting ideas.

"This is the last time I'm doing this," he said, hands sliding down Oliver's back, down the back of the already-unfastened trousers, and Oliver was smooth skin and warm flesh and a very tempting whimper, and maybe he ought to have been more afraid that he was going to be the one getting ideas.

"Oh, absolutely," Oliver agreed. "Just like last time was, well, the last time, and the first time was the _only_ time. I've heard this one before."

"We can't keep doing this."

"Mmm. You should keep doing _that_...Maybe consider going pro, but not until--fuck, that's good--I get my next term's pocket money."

He pushed Oliver away. "I'm serious."

"So'm I. I lost my last Sickle betting on the Appleby-Wimbourne match with Lee Jordan. I'm broke until after Christmas." At Marcus's glower, he continued, "And why can't we?"

"It's ridiculous."

"It's _fun._ Or at least, it would be if you'd stop being such a prat."

"I don't even like you."

A grin. "I'm not asking you to like me."

"I'm not doing this again."

"You're not doing anything _now._ " The voice slightly petulant, but still--he had a point. No point in regretting this in the morning if he never actually got around to doing anything to regret, after all.

"Come back here and I will."

That was all the encouragement Oliver needed, and Marcus rapidly found himself forgetting that he'd never actually gotten Oliver to agree with him. Forgetting pretty much everything, to be honest; it was getting difficult to think about anything except what Oliver was doing.

And he might as well enjoy it. It was the last time, after all.

***

"I trust you're going to keep to the terms of our agreement, Wood."

So it was back to "Wood" and "Flint" now, Oliver thought. Marcus was really bent on pretending this was going to happen. "Of course I will. I gave you my word." _With one hand behind my back with the fingers crossed, and the other hand busy trying to make you scream, so I'm not sure if it counts._ "When we get on the train tomorrow, this is over and done with," he said. Recited, in fact; Marcus had gone over this often enough that, if Oliver were of a slightly more suspicious turn of mind, he'd have wondered who he was really trying to convince. "We'll be out of school, and this can't be allowed to continue. So from that point on, I don't know you, I don't talk to you, I most certainly don't lure you off into deserted corners and fuck you senseless. No matter how much you want me to," he couldn't resist adding.

Marcus scowled at him, but let it go. "Exactly. This is the last time I'm ever going to give in to you--"

Oliver choked back laughter. "I believe it was you who practically dragged me out of the Great Hall tonight."

"That's beside the point."

"Of course it is. You were saying something about this being the last time. Just like you said last time, and the time before that, and all the times back to the first time. One day, I'm actually going to believe you, and what'll you do then?"

"Rejoice." A sharp grin. "But right now--"

"Yes?" Leaning forward, mouth only a fraction of an inch from Marcus's. Daring Marcus to push him away.

Mouth against his, tongue battling with his for control, teeth nipping at his lower lip, and oh, Marcus was a fool if he thought Oliver was giving this up that easily. They broke apart, Oliver trying to get control of his ragged breathing, and Marcus grinned again. "Shut up."

***

"I'm not staying," Marcus said, locking the door behind him.

"Of course you're not," Oliver answered. "What do you want for breakfast tomorrow? I only ask because I think the milk's gone off."

Damn it, could Oliver listen to him, just this once? "I can't. We can't. I have to go, Oliver. I just wanted to tell you--" To tell him what? The truth? His nastier side looked forward to that, actually, to letting Oliver know just how fucking wrong he'd been about Marcus, the past five years, but. He hadn't meant for this to happen. He hadn't wanted this, had _tried,_ damn it, to be what Oliver wanted, and it hadn't worked. He'd known it wouldn't, and he'd tried anyway, and what more could Oliver possibly expect from him?

"What?" Oliver said, that annoying grin beginning at the corners of his mouth. "That this is the last time we can ever do this?"

"Yes." At Oliver's raised eyebrow, he shrugged off his robes, pushed his shirtsleeve up to reveal what was hidden beneath. It would heal to be almost invisible, they'd told him, except, of course, when he was being called. But right now, the Mark was red, and angry-looking, and there was no way Oliver could take it for anything but what it was.

"The Dark Mark." He stared at it for a moment. "You said only the inner circle got-- you said you weren't anywhere near that involved--"

"It appears that plans have changed," Marcus said. "There must have been twenty of us given the Mark tonight. Lord Voldemort wants to have better control over _all_ his followers." Which he supposed he was. It'd been easier than arguing. It'd been what was expected of him, and it was less boring than his job at Gringotts, where he had to spend half his time talking to Muggle bankers (currency exchange, and the like, being the one thing the goblins couldn't handle), and it wasn't like he cared who won the war anyway.

Oliver's eyes were wide, and for a second, he looked like the boy he'd been at school, the one who'd been so thoroughly shocked the first time he played against Slytherin and discovered that not everyone played Quidditch by the rules. "You saw him?"

He shook his head. "Lucius Malfoy did it. None of us were worth the personal attention of the Dark Lord." Then he grinned, in spite of himself. "Draco screamed like a girl when he got his."

That almost got a smile in return. Then Oliver moved closer to him, examining his arm. "Does it hurt?"

"Like a son of a bitch." He expected Oliver to look away, expected him to turn his back on Marcus. Expected Oliver to make this easier on him--but hell, when had Oliver ever done that?

He should have expected this, instead: Oliver lowering his head and pressing his lips to the blistered skin, and _fuck,_ that hurt, but he wasn't about to tell Oliver to stop. "Good," Oliver said, straightening up. "Stupid bastard; I told you to watch yourself."

"Are you not hearing me? This is the _Dark_ _Mark._ You can't even pretend we're on the same side any more."

"As long as it doesn't interfere with the Quidditch season, I don't see why I should care." And that was a lie, Marcus knew; even if Oliver wasn't personally involved in any of this, his friends were, and there was no way they could end up not hating each other. Or killing each other.

But maybe for one more night, he could pretend he believed what Oliver was saying.

***

"You can always come and work for our side." How many times had he said that in the past year? Enough that he should have known better, Oliver decided.

"There are less painful ways of committing suicide," Marcus replied in a near-whisper, to avoid attracting the attention of the other diners in the restaurant. It was a Muggle place, the only kind of place Oliver could get him to agree to go, these days; he had some idea that it was safer.

Oliver didn't see much point, himself; "safe" was largely a matter of luck, these days. "Snape was a double agent for years," he pointed out.

"And you see what happened to him." Severus Snape had disappeared a year ago.

Oliver concentrated on his food for a while to give him an excuse to not say anything. They'd had this argument too many times since Marcus had gotten the Dark Mark. Maybe Marcus was right--or would be right, when they got to the particular spot in the argument when he said it (and he always did)--and he was being a selfish bastard, but he didn't think so. He didn't want Marcus to become a double agent for his sake. He wanted Marcus to do it because it was the right thing to do, because he'd said himself that he never wanted to be a damned Death Eater in the first place, because--

All right, he was being selfish, then. He wanted Marcus to do it because he didn't want Marcus to be working for the people who were trying to kill most of the people Oliver cared about. Because as frustrating and (if he was going to be honest) thoroughly fucked-up this thing-they-were-not-calling-a-relationship was, he'd like to think it had a future of some kind. Because he'd never thought Marcus was half the bastard he claimed to be, and he didn't like being proved wrong.

"What, you _want_ to be a murderer?" he heard himself saying, wishing he could call the words back as soon as they were said.

"I haven't killed anyone."

"The people you work for have." Too many people. Katie Bell was gone, Professor Flitwick, Roger Davies--all in the past couple of months. And they were just the last entries on the list, and there were more that Oliver hadn't known, whose names he didn't remember.

Marcus's expression hardened. "So have your people. There wasn't enough of Bletchley left to bury."

"That's--"

"--different, right?" Marcus sneered. Before Oliver had a chance to argue--his next word would have been "true," as it happened--he got up from the table, putting on his coat. "I can't believe I've listened to this as long as I have."

"Listened?" Oliver scoffed. "When have you ever listened?"

Marcus ignored him. "This is the last time I'm going to say this. We're through. I've made my choices--"

_Liar,_ Oliver thought, remembering the shock and horror on his face the night he'd been given the Dark Mark. _They were made for you._

"--and if you can't accept that, then the hell with you." He threw some money on the table and stalked out.

Oliver sat there for a moment, red-faced, aware of the amusement on some of the other diners' faces, the sympathy on others. Then, once he'd judged that Marcus would be long gone, he paid the check and left.

Marcus was waiting for him in his flat. Oliver was only slightly surprised; after this many years, he'd learned that it was always best to consider the possibility that Marcus Flint didn't mean a single word he said.

"I don't want to hear it," Marcus warned. "Not one word."

Oliver shook his head. And then talking became unnecessary, anyway.

***

"I probably won't be back," he said, curling around Oliver and wrapping an arm around his chest.

Sleepily, Oliver muttered, "Where have I heard that before?"

"I get the feeling this is meant to be a suicide mission," he clarified, and felt Oliver tense.

"What are you planning?" he demanded.

"I can't tell you that." Three years of this. Except when they were fighting, this had been three years of pretending that there wasn't a world outside of Oliver's flat, or his, except when they occasionally ventured out for food. Talking about work, about their official jobs anyway, without ever mentioning the Mark on his arm, or the fact that--or so the spies reported--Oliver had gone to join Dumbledore's side the very next day after Marcus had been initiated. Talking about people they knew from school, but never mentioning the ones who had died, or why. Three years, in short, of developing a very specialized, very particular form of insanity. Which made the past three years very much like the five before, only with more possibility of getting killed.

Oliver sighed. "I know. But--is it really that dangerous?"

There was supposed to be a secret meeting of most of the Ministry's aurors tomorrow; there was a Death Eater spy in their ranks, and the aurors were going to find an unpleasant surprise waiting for them. Marcus's job, his only job, was to maintain the spell barrier around the meeting place until all of the aurors were dead, to prevent any escapes. He still wasn't expecting to make it out alive. Didn't much care, really, just wanted this to be over. Wanted to stop looking around and wondering what the hell he'd done wrong to end up here. He'd rather it end with him alive, of course, but if it couldn't--there were worse alternatives. "Dangerous enough."

"I'd wish you luck, but--"

"Like I'd want that from you," he said. They were quiet for a bit. He wondered what Oliver was thinking, and almost asked, but then decided he didn't want to spend his last night alive having to explain to Oliver for the hundredth time that changing sides wasn't as easy as he seemed to think.

No, arguing wasn't how he wanted to spend this night. His voice as casual as he could manage, he asked, "One last time?" The hand resting on Oliver's chest slipped farther down, and Oliver sighed again, this time more happily.

"You've got to get a new line, Flint," he said, rolling over and pinning Marcus to the bed.

***

"Prisoners who have been judged dangerous are allowed no visitors," he said, in a tone of mock solemnity. "In other words, you're not supposed to be here."

Oliver grinned. He'd have been worried if Marcus had sounded pleased to see him. "I am a man of infinite resources," he replied. "I called in a few favors. Pulled a few strings."

Marcus grimaced and moved over to the end of the narrow bunk to give him room to sit down. "Turned your big brown eyes on Percy Weasley, I'm sure."

"He was willing to help out," Oliver corrected. "As a favor."

A snort. "A Weasley isn't likely to do me any favors."

And that was true enough even _before_ Ron Weasley had been killed his first week out of auror training, but now-- "He did it for me," Oliver said, and hoped Marcus didn't think too much about why Percy might want to do him any favors. Especially now that Marcus was likely to be...out of the picture. Whether Marcus had thought about it or not, he changed the subject. "You were at the trial," he said. "Montague told me, when he interviewed me for the Prophet."

He'd seen the article. Marcus had done his best to sound unconcerned and unrepentant, which hadn't really surprised him much. "I'm sure he did. 'That bastard Wood turned up to gloat,' was it?"

"Something like that."

"You know that wasn't it."

Marcus shrugged, which was as close to agreement as Oliver was likely to get. "The sentencing is tomorrow," he said. "They tell me that I'm likely to get a light sentence, since I confessed, and didn't actually kill any of them myself. Twenty years or so." A grin, quick and bitter, twisted his face for a moment. "Of course, after twenty years with the dementors, I'm not sure how much I'll actually enjoy my freedom."

"I won't be there tomorrow," Oliver said, answering the question Marcus hadn't asked.

"I didn't expect--"

Oliver didn't let him finish, didn't want to hear any of it. Not now. Not when everything Marcus said took up more of the few minutes Percy had been able to get them. "I'd planned to be, but it seems I've got an appointment with Magical Law Enforcement and a bottle of Veritaserum."

"They're bringing you in for questioning?"

"I'm fucking a Death Eater. I'm lucky they're only asking questions."

Genuine shock on his face. "They can't know that."

Despite everything, he couldn't help laughing. "Marcus, _everyone_ knows that." Everyone had known from the very beginning; they'd been the worst kept secret at Hogwarts. And nobody had ever been shy about letting Oliver know that they knew, either, from the usually good-natured ribbing that he'd gotten from the Gryffindor Quidditch team to the awkward conversation he'd had with McGonagall about discretion and circumspection and what was expected from a leader of his House. Somehow, though, Marcus had managed to notice none of it.

And since they'd been out of school, they'd never given anyone any reason to think they weren't still together. Never been with anyone else--at least, he hadn't, and if Marcus had, he thought he'd know. Never so much as looked at anyone else. Marcus was a constant, if unacknowledged, presence at Oliver's Quidditch matches. Oliver turned up more often than not in Diagon Alley at lunchtime, apparating in to drag Marcus out of his office and, theoretically, out to lunch, although anyone with half a brain could see that "lunch" didn't leave one looking nearly so disheveled. Unless, of course, it was spent in an alley, or the stairwell, or, once, a secluded corner near the back of Flourish and Blotts.

"We've been careful."

"No, we haven't." If they'd been careful-- Well, if they'd been careful, there'd never have been a first time, let alone the last eight years.

Marcus was silent for a minute. Then he said, "You don't know anything. I made sure of that. You'll be all right."

"Of course I will," he agreed. He didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to think about tomorrow. He didn't want to think at all, wanted to go back to when they didn't have to think, didn't have to worry or plan or hope to hell that things would somehow turn out all right. Couldn't think of a way to do that, so he settled for kissing Marcus, and the hell with the guard outside.

Marcus didn't kiss back, only held onto him for a minute, tightly enough that Oliver was sure he'd still feel it tomorrow, when the Ministry was asking him question after question about what he knew, how much he knew, when he'd known it, whether he could have prevented any of it. When Oliver hoped the security spells left him enough freedom to spit in their faces. When they led Marcus away to Azkaban--but no, he'd promised himself he wasn't going to think about it. He'd have twenty years or more to think about it, and this was the last day that he didn't have to.

Then, suddenly, Marcus let go. "I'm sure your time's up."

He glanced at his watch. "We've got ten more minutes."

"Still."

And that, he supposed, was that. "All right." The door was spelled to let him out--only him, and whatever he'd had with him when he entered; he didn't need to summon the guard.

With his hand on the door, though, he paused. "Marcus, I--"

And now it was his turn to be interrupted. "Spare me the sentimentality, Wood. I fucked up, and I'm paying the price. There's nothing more to be said about it."

"Right." He should've known better, after all.

And as the door closed behind him, it occurred to him that for once, Marcus hadn't said it was the last time, hadn't tried to push him away--not really; had only tried to avoid the messy emotional scene that Oliver knew he was all too capable of making, after eight years of refusing to let himself do anything of the sort. The one time Oliver would have had no choice but to agree, and he hadn't said it at all.

There was probably some grand ironic lesson to be learned from that, but he wasn't in the mood.


End file.
